


The Songbird That Escapes

by coffinofachimera



Series: Laika and the Songbird [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bearding, Bottom Harry, Canon Compliant, Crossdressing, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Heavy Angst, Insecurity, Internal Conflict, Internalizing, Kissing, Lingerie, Louis-centric, M/M, Melancholy, Mirrors, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sad, Smut, Spooning, Submissive Harry, Vague Feminization, lying, poetic verse, stunts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:27:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9557162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffinofachimera/pseuds/coffinofachimera
Summary: Louis is desperate to prove that he can still take care of Harry, even when the weight of the world is breaking his bones.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am happy to have participated in the Sub Harry Fic Fest! I hope everyone enjoys the story. It is sad, but I hope there can be beauty too.

Once a week Louis ventures into LA's gilded corners to shop for his girlfriend. Always alone. Not that he holds much choice over the matter. There's solace to be found in the belief that it paves a path to an adventure that way— the preface of surprise gifts, and all. But any man drifting in the lady's department of the retail world is a commissional prize so, really, there's no such thing as a shopping trip that's truly solitary in principal, in essence. Lonely— yes, maybe. Alone— never really. Someone always hounds about, sniffing out the outline of your business if they aren't insisting they be granted access. American uptown retail workers are absurdly eager to assist. Luckily for Louis, he's a match met well; excelling at the art of charming staff and making for a rewarding client. That isn't so exciting. So many years, now— it's all cemented into routine. But, mostly just baggage to tire him sooner than later. 

Because he lies so much. To speak frankly. And he never does. He downplays the measure of dishonesty. And the expanse.

Body washes, perfume, jewelry and lingerie are the usual merchandise Louis is determined to purchase. He's become drawn to the pinnacles of femininity— whatever concepts society has established as primary. Maybe to prove a point. Initially he told himself to be discreet with what he perched his eyes on; picking items modest and unfurnished with no flashy distinction, easily kept private even beyond closed doors. But the motivation to follow through has worn so thin it's inverted into a sabotage. When clothes are especially pricey and loud, Louis keenly takes it home. Mostly because he means to be more irresponsible than he's already going out of his way to be. Eventually occasions turned to habit, and a fair warning became routine. Now Louis splurges with a haul he cares little for keeping inconspicuous, and even less for sparing a second guess about— much less remorse.

There's no such thing as a loaded pistol with a safety switch kept on— these days; these months. Sitting at the horizon of his motive, Louis can see the desire to make a statement bright and fiery for a righteous broadcast. Except he can't broadcast it. Maybe that's all he's ever making up for. Outside of Instagram likes and the timing of a selfie, Louis is playing with fire. And he always gets burned. But his skin has become so familiar with the heat of risk it's numbed him to it, somehow. Melting away the nerves that tell him pain from pleasure; right from wrong. One day his skin will catch flames, blacken, melt right off— whatever it is fire does to flesh, whatever it is consequences do to reality. But Louis can't say he can tell the difference anymore. Clouded judgement, a tendency to be both faithless and fanatical at the same time. Lately he can't get a buzz out of things if they aren't unadvised. If it all isn't risky and dancing at the edge of an overboard then it's not quite as appealing. And Louis just can't wrap his head around anything short of heroism these days; his intentions are overdressed for every occasion. 

Things of princesses and noble oaths to servitude. Trapped in a tower— though she is so happy with her luxuries, she can assure you.

Things have come to that.

The issue at hand, to be clear: when Louis's inhibitions take a bench seat and he's indulging in spite too much to remember to keep his story right when a retail worker asks if he needs assistance. Louis feels like he's pushing through barbed wires and warning signs when he answers, "Yes." 

"And what colors does she like?" The elementary icebreaker of a retail worker looking for that commission from a man shopping for his woman. That's Louis's favorite question, because it happens to be the most important. Very insistently and with no hesitation he will say,

"Pink. It has to be pink. But not, you know, magenta or hot pink of anything like that. She likes baby pink. That's her favorite color."

And by that point the retail worker animates insistently; interested. This is a man in tune with his woman's taste—  that's helpful, that's entertaining. They have an angle to approach their objective. "Would you say she likes frilly things?"

"Yeah, ruffles, lace— the whole lot." He'll feel how he brags, molding his tone to sound endeared though playfully exasperated for the sake of being charming. "She's quite fond of silk as well. And glitter. Anything sparkly."

The sparkles always inspires delight, as the rarely manifested cliche is a treat.  Louis enjoys the thought of what lady they must imagine. Some tall-heeled blonde Beverly Hills barbie with a tiny toy breed and a mini handle bag; tacky material girl, primadonna, early 2000's. "So a little princess, huh?" They'll grin. "Just gotta get everything she wants." The suggestion would come as a convenience to them, surely. 

Louis wholeheartedly agrees because he ravishes in the implications it manifests at the root of his own ego. It strokes his pride and swells it up tall. Of course the best, of course the prettiest, of course the priciest for a _princess_. He'd like to believe he pushes the spending that far and tailors it so dutifully he makes royalty out of the object of his affections— that special girl, that special lady. The swipe of his card is always a nice feeling. So is walking out of high-end stores with a fat bag worth at least a dozen benjamins, just so he can hop into a Range Rover and get chauffeured to another store, and then return home to kisses to conclude his quest. Louis is impartial to luxury, but this is about the only time he gets a kick out of indulging in his millions.

He's a good, _good_ man. A good, _good_ boyfriend.

Louis by nature likes more and he takes more and he gives even more than that, especially more than he should. He makes note of every detail and cements it in a mile-long mural, a cavernous shrine isolated from humanity to keep it safe.  Louis keeps the small things to himself like filing records hoarded in a massive warehouse, color coded and organized by date, by theme, by scent, by tone. The things he takes he never lets go— ugly doodles, movie tickets, handwritten fan letters, dead house plants— and that goes for memory, too. For better or for worse; birthdays and grudges. Regardless, in the spirit of preserving his carefree charm and the element of surprise, Louis will feign his ignorance and play the part of a man with little concern for anything short of a good time.

That can make things more fun— the unpredictability of a joyous prankster, the relief of an unafflicted club buddy. The cause is enthralling enough for him to live with the complementary misconception of being a lazy deadbeat, and any other assumption his choice in honesty harvests. But Louis doesn't feel he's a dishonest man. His intentions are true to what he assures is common knowledge shared across the world and documented well through past deeds. At least, he hopes. And he hopes quite well. Louis's optimism comes into play as a constant when he believes that everything is spinning according to plan. That his relationship with the world around him is as breathable and vulnerable as it always was. He insists. 

But Louis— he just wants to shop in peace. Ultimately— at least today. To ignore cautionary heeds and tread uncarefully about his business just to prove he can, to prove he has the power to hold his world steady in the face of adversity.

But that's him playing the part of a fool again. Louis turns a blind eye to the full scope of the picture. Lately he can only think in maniacal monologues, rushing over pieces he keeps out of context at any given time.

"Is that your ride out there?" 

Louis quickly turns his head back at the cashier. "I'm sorry?"

The man chuckles, pulling his gaze down at the scanner as he shrugs. "Sorry I just... you were looking out the window for a while. Saw the car..."

Louis hadn't realized, paying a glance back at the Range Rover parked outside the store before turning his head to the clerk a second time. He reels himself back into the present, and says, "Oh no, yeah. Yeah, that's my ride. Out there." Their conversation stands still with an awkward pause, giving Louis the hunch that the topic will shift to him personally. The cashier's name is Brendan, he reads on the tag as the beeping of barcodes goes by. By some rare miracle, they're the only two people in the otherwise empty store. But 10:36am can't be a busy hour for any store, much less a boutique that sells $500 polo shirts. 

"So you don't... like, drive?" the cashier murmurs awkwardly, fiddling with the tag on one of the blouses he rings up. Louis was right— the man is meddling. Things won't end here, should he answer.  _Don't_ , he thinks.

"No. Not really."

Brendan the cashier nods, still twiddling the paper tag. "...Is it like, a license thing?" 

Louis chuckles at the odd exchange. It feels inappropriate. But that only puts him in doubt of his own judgement. 

"Or like, VISA?"

No, he's prying, definitely. _Why?_ he wonders. Why him, of all people. It can't be typical. But Louis rejects his wariness as paranoia and stands down. _This is normal, nothing's wrong. Relax._ "I dunno." He thinks. "I'd just rather not drive. I'm lazy, I suppose." Technically true. Louis could drive. 

"Oh! Oh. Cool." The cashier nods before awkwardly guarding silence again. He's older than Louis by five, maybe six years, going on to succeed him in height. Boring blonde hair, a square head, a flatteringly hooked nose, and a white blouse to seal his look. He's sharply maintained for work but his voice needs refining to fit with the ambiance. The minimalist glam, the chill house mix echoing softly through the vacant store— it doesn't flow right with that deep Boston mumble. 

But maybe he believes he can afford to stray from protocol, being alone with Louis. Metallica shirts and jorts with Warped Tour fringes don't often waltz into La Perla stores, much less actually make the line to buy anything. Maybe the cashier figures Louis shouldn't be too uptight about offering context to the $2k subtotal growing on with every item scanned. Louis sighs.

"So uh..." Another subject change from the Mr. Brendan, again pausing to fumble with the price tags on one of the coats. "What brings you to LA?" The sound of a quick beep comes as he scans the item by, carefully grabbing the coat by the shoulders to fold nicely and place in a store bag. "I uh... I know you're from England, right?"

 _The fuck is with this guy?_ Louis thinks in his head. But he conflicts with his core interests like a separate limb, and answers quite enthusiastically, "Yeah! Uh... Well, I've lived here for about a year now."

"Where do you live?" The shameless curiosity of a child. That's definitely not a question Louis should answer. 

"Calabasas." The blaring horn of an incorrect answer.

"Nice neighborhood. Very nice." He nods, seemingly surprised. This time he looks Louis in the eyes with a smile, putting a stop to his job for a moment's chat. "You been to In N' Out?" 

Louis laughs at the obligatory question. "Of course. "

"Yeah!" he grins. "Can't come to Cali and not go to In N' Out. You checked the skating scene? Or like, the surfing scene?"

"No, not yet."

The clerk nods. "Gotta get around to it, buddy." And his voice scrapes down real deep then. Louis didn't expect it, smiling to himself at the candid exchange. 

"It is sort of an indefinite stay, though. So I'm not in a rush." _Stop_. "I've got uh... I'm here for work." _Don't say it_. "I do—" _music_ "—uh... yeah— Although that's not so fun, is it?" Louis laughs. "I've gotta fuck around more." 

"Always a wise course of action!"

It's a bit of a misfortune—

"I've gotta see more...."

—that in the peripheral vision of the gaze laid upon the coats, Louis catches sight of the gold band on the cashier's ring finger. Something in the center of his pupils gleams in a white flash. And his attention sticks to the gold; holds. He doesn't mean for such an inconvenience; the deliberate pressing of a thumb into a painful bruise.

"Always a good idea."

The wedding ring is too small for that fat finger. Such a boring and meager band. Louis can think of a much lovelier design right off the tip of his head. He can think of a million and one. 

"Shopping... probably not so much, huh?" The retail worker laughs, raising an eyebrow at the register's monitor before shaking his head at the subtotal. "That is rough." It's so unprofessional of him to say. He doesn't even scan the clothes. He rests his weight on one leg, casually leaned over the counter under some false context that characterizes the situation as if they were friends for no reason at all. Why? Everything tells Louis to kindle his caution and find his way out of the conversation— but he finds it more terrible he's thinking in such a panic. He was never so wary of conversation, years ago. It's me, not him. "Who are you shopping for?"

Wiping his eyes after looking away from the ring is unnecessary, but the gesture comes as a a reflex. Louis has to answer quickly before the tune of the conversation slips from his grasp. "My girlfriend." That's right.

"Please tell me it's her card you're gonna swipe."

"Hm? No." If he were honest he'd realize resentment is carving a path into his chest. And he's looking so stoic and pretty as he slowly retracts his attention to keep from worrying. Louis isn't focusing right. "It's all me."

Brendan widens his eyes with a honky laugh. Louis didn't anticipate it would surprise him that much. "Oh. Wow. Good for you, dude. Or actually, good for her." And he's back to scanning the items. Only the small things now. Louis can remember underwear, a bracelet and a scarf off the top of his head. He's sure there are more. But a fog has cast across his mind, blurring the details over. "Is your girlfriend uh... American?" the cashier asks. "Or is she British?" 

 _American. Chicago-born. Actress._ Louis's biting the inside of his cheeks as he watches the items slide over the scanner with beep after beep. There's the $425 bracelet. _American_. The $370 lace mid-rise baby pink knickers. _Chicago-born._ And the $335 baby pink triangle B-cup bra in embroided tulle. Never can fit into a B-cup. But the extra fabric does look so flattering. _Actress._

Louis blinks back up at the cashier with pupils flared and a tired smile. And what a dishonor he commits to the art of counterstepping. 

"She's an English rose." His body immediately reacts with a shift in the center of his insides. The currents switching magnetic fields. Switching wrong. 

The cashier nods with a smile back. "She lives here? With you?"

"Yeah. This year." The flash of his teeth for that big grin, his eyes crinkling. "This is the first time." Louis can't remember where they live. Where really. He doesn't know. He doesn't realize he's looked away and fallen from realm of the conversation.

"This is a nice color..." Brendan nods as he folds up the lingerie.

"Pink's her favorite color." No one asked.

"Well apart from black, everything you've got here is pink," he laughs, reaching over to place the lingerie in the generously sized paper bag. "So I'm sure she'll be very happy. I mean, let's hope to God, right?" Brendan laughs without taste, without the gleaming polish of true respect. "God help you if she's not!"

"She's good to me," Louis's voice comes quiet with a soft prose, lost as to what else he could say. Every word in the world wants to burst from his tongue; compelled like prophet to paper. "I wanna make her happy. More than anything." His thoughts take flight without strings, unfolding without pace. And he needs to stop himself. "More than myself."

"Aw. What does she do?"

"I d— I don't know." What to say. "She likes to uh..." Sing— _no_. Louis's processing his thoughts under an emergency power outage, a desperate security measure from some higher wisdom. Louis runs straight through, murmuring on softly. "She likes to write." 

"Books?" Why does he care? Louis hasn't stopped to ask.

"Poems. And uh... songs." His brow slack, the tips of his ears flaring red under his brown hair. Eye contact doesn't feel like eye contact at all. "A-And she acts."

"Poet, singer/actress?" And Brendan laughs. Not out of courtesy, but out of amusement. As if he were paying it to a daft child. 

This casts a shadow bigger than Louis can really imagine; ink bleeding through onto another page he didn't mean for it to go. How horrible, he thinks. That must be paranoia, he thinks. That something bad will happen for what insignificant conversation he reaps with a stranger, just like everyone else does. _It's fine_ , Louis assures himself. And he resents the obligation. Suddenly so tired, suddenly so wrinkled from strain.

In the silence the cashier pays a glance to the screen of the register and gives another nod with a chuckle. Was he this annoying before? Louis reaches up to scratch his face, barely listening when the cashier tells him, "You must love her a lot to drop all this cash on her, my dude." He must not believe Louis has that much to his name-- as if he isn't a double digit millionaire. How often that must happen. Louis can't remember if he thinks about it. He wonders if he could be spending more. He'd like to. 

"I do," he murmurs quietly as he watches the subtotal stack high on the cash register's monitor. "I've got a little princess."

Brendan nods, down to the last item scanned. An $880 slip in baby pink. He folds it up nice and places it in the third bag stuffed. And under his breath he marks his most ironic statement yet. "When we die we gotta reincarnate as really hot chicks." Shaking his head, pressing some buttons on the register now. "I'm tellin ya." Flashing a hopeless smile at Louis. 

And Louis cocks his brow at himself with a chuckle, his gaze buried in the sight of his La Perla bags, ready to take home. "Hot chicks."

"Yep."

Girlfriend is an ironically relevant term for someone with no attachment of his own. Louis wonders what that must mean under the light of some grand scheme, what it says about him as a person. But he isn't old enough yet for this to cement a meaninful mark on his sense of self, he thinks. It's temporary. It won't matter soon. It chokes him, yes, but, it can't mean it really bares permanent significance. It can't. It just can't.

Louis sends his gaze back to the register monitor with blink.

"Alright. Let's see that black card."

He's hasn’t spent enough money today. That’s no good.

 

XVII.

 

"Look."

Oli squints his eyes from across his section of the plane as he leans forward a bit. He snorts when he sees and leans back into his seat. "Oh."

"He's so cute."

And he tries to think of something to say, hands snug in his hoodie's pocket. "Is his shirt pink?"

"Yeah." Louis moves from his seat by the window over to Oli, who keeps from rolling his eyes as he pulls down his headphones. "Look, this one's newer," Louis tells him as he passes the phone to him. "Everyone really likes this one."

"That's the same shirt."

"Yeah it is." Louis swipes right. "And there's this one."

"Stop showing me pictures."

Under his breath, "I've got no one else to show them to so quit being a fucking shithead." And that's not the first time he's said it. "How many times do you want me to fucking tell you?"

Oli does roll his eyes this time.

"Look."

Again he turns his head down to look, squinting again at how the glaring screen pierces unforgivably through the darkness in the pitch black private jet. Everyone asleep, the cabin quiet. "Yellow!" he celebrates with mild mockery. He really doesn't ever care about the pictures Louis shows him. But especially when he's trying to sleep. "Nice. Uh..." He shrugs dismissively. "When's that from?"

"A few days ago." Louis keeps swiping right so Oli can see all the pictures. "But the pics came out today."

"His hair looks like shit."

Louis takes his phone back again, zooming into the photo to fawn at the fluffy mess of hair. "He's growing it out."

"Short hair doesn't suit him."

In just a gentle yet threatening murmur, "Ease up on the criticism, yeah?" 

"Oh my God. He's not the queen of fucking England." 

"Don't piss me off."

Then he snorts, mockingly objecting the looming notion before it comes. "And guys aren't princesses~"

The air around Louis sharpens like needle tips and angles to an outward offensive. He doesn't narrow his eyes. He doesn't frown. The waters are otherwise unstirred and tranquil. Too many convictions scratching at the walls of his mind—  his disposition comes to a blunt, spiteful sundown; no mockery or bluffing. There's nothing

when he punches Oli's head against the plane window with a single, cold blow

before leaving to a seat in the back of the jet. 

It made just the most sensational noise.

Oli exists as enough of a conscious and thoroughly schooled individual to know better than to bark in a rage, _'What the fuck is wrong with you?!'_ and beat his fists into a body the way his nature would've called for, maybe, two years ago. You aren't raised abrasive and burning with spirit only to endure a blow with no retribution. Especially not as a neighboring friend to Louis Tomlinson. There's such wicked anger at the tip of his tongue. Stupid and short-tempered, he is. But Oli settles into despondence, like any man would do at the mercy of his pity in the face of a wilted beast. Or fear. There is a fear, by the way.

The thing about taunting a captive predator from outside a glass enclosure is that there's an acrid instant of understanding that overwhelms the human spirit as a lesson when that very predator pounces, voiceless, and armed with the rage of a killer as it crashes into the barrier. Whether it knew of its own powerlessness, of its own failure— you don't quite know. But it's then that you do know— there's no matter or tangible wall that could ever protect you from the horror of a weaponized mouth breaking into your bones, and registering in your heart as a true thing. As if it were possible, as if it were real. The only truth comes: just because the animal tolerates you doesn't guarantee it'll have no qualms about hurting you. It won't hesitate. And it'll take pleasure in avenging the instincts it’s been punished into repressing. Such profound suffering lying underneath the lion's mane.

Louis is good at cloaking acrimony when he wants to. Because everything is always under his control, revolving inside his dominion. Should you see blood dampening through the gauze wrapped around his skin, he's always said, it's because he cut the wound himself.

That's not the case anymore.

 

XVIII.

 

Homecoming means having two homes. It's a two-step transaction and it makes counting down arrival dates torture because Louis never gets both at the same time. There never is enough time. And he was never given the luxury of ignorance in order to believe that it was only childish greed that made delay such a matter of misery. The longest he can ever stand to wait anymore is four days. Any minute outside of that makes him itch in his joints and smoke more than he means to. That has to be unhealthy— the gnawing of bones under the strain of frustration and fear, the separation anxiety. That's for dogs, not people. A tail tucked tight between the legs, a chewed up couch, the stench of ammonia corrosing through patches of yellowed carpet— it might as well be the reality. It humiliates Louis all the same, without sparing a single second's comfort from a lesson learned, an ounce of resilience gained. _What are you afraid of, that he's gonna die?_ he's asked himself. _You know he's not gonna die._ But realistically, he'd be the one lying in a grave. 

Louis William Tomlinson: braveheart Capricorn extraordinaire. Nothing gets to him, he'll argue 'till the end of his days. Waiting for home to come home means restlessness and time spent looking out the window, time spent refreshing Twitter search results for updates and time spent deleting worried text messages he never lets himself send out. Every new low sets a checkpoint for the next session of _pain_ — and so it all sinks further, deeper, constantly without stopping. There’s no rationality, no autopilot to rest him back into a state of ease and the luxury of sound mindedness. This is habit taking up greater space every time it passes by, leaving stretched out barriers and shapeless outlines of once tailored coping mechanisms Louis's too proud to tighten again, as if tolerating the pain is more dignified, as if it proves a dated point. It's been worse, though he won't acknowledge it. It was so bad today. 

Was; past tense. 

The bathroom doorknob wiggles, and Louis fixes his attention on the awaited silhouette passing through the open door.

A smile spreads across his face— his brightest of the night. "Oh, look at you!" he exclaims as a means of flattery. But there’s such excitement in his eyes. A bit of surprise when he catches sight of _that_. “That is just lovely." His voice is warm and smooth as it passes through the air, like steam softening the air.

“Yeah!” That small, boisterous laugh comes with a quick note that tells Louis, "I think it's a set with the other ones. The knickers, at least." The $370 lace mid-rise baby pink knickers Louis purchased today. "I don’t um… I don’t know about the bra.”

"Same design, is it?"

"Yeah! And it has the same uh... embroidery. On the lace."

Louis nods. “And do those fit nice?”

“Yeah. They cover me up nicely, for once. Well, covered up by my standards, anyway.”

“It’s because they’re uh…” He has to squint his eyes and dig around his memory to grasp at the right word. “Mid-rise. Yeah— they go up your tummy. Your little tummy.”

“My tummy.” That’s a sweet way of putting it—met with a smile that Louis keeps as a token. One of a trillion; a glimmer in a cluster of stars.

For at least an hour he’s sat as sole and prime guest to the lonely modelling of every piece of clothing he brought home, as they often now do every time he comes home from impulse shopping. The revealing, the smiling, the twirling— it all conjures an unsurpassed high. Louis will sit on the edge of their bed, facing the bathroom door, and soak in a bath of fulfillment as he marvels at a giddy exhibition of appearance and disappearance and appearance again. Everything he bought right before him and exactly where it belongs. The most satisfying conclusion to all his reckless spending. The reward, if he isn't too selfish for wanting one.

Pride that's to do with noble purpose is an underrated delicacy, not to be confused with pride concerning personal accomplishments.  Louis's sense of fulfillment lies in the hands of an other. Consequences could never matter.

"What's it called? A babydoll?” Louis asks for the sake of having prompting a bit of trivia. “A nightie?"

"The proper term is slip." 

"Slip."

It's the $880 one from La Perla in pale baby pink. Leavers lace at the breasts with a border of embroideries sitting under it, and stretch silk hanging halfway down the thighs.

"I think this is georgette, actually."

Louis doesn't know the difference. "Oh." He laughs quietly. "Excuse me."

"Yeah it's not silk—  well, it's the same thing, really."

Outfit #4 from shopping bag #2 of the six Louis carried through their front door. It might be his favorite piece purchased today. Mainly because there was a deep sense of malaise attached to the sight of it, initially. That was unexpected. But now, seeing it modeled on its new rightful owner, it's all been washed away. 

"I got it a size bigger so it wouldn't be tight on you," Louis informs. It was a mindful gesture he nearly forgot about. "Does it fit alright?" he asks, motioning to the falling strap at the upper arm. "Or do you prefer it smaller?" Women's clothing rarely fits the same way, but lingerie in particular always runs especially small or exclusively shaped. The last set of lingerie was too tight in the worst places, and changed the original shape completely into a frumpy, wrinkled mess.

"Uh... I think bigger. Like this."

"Comfy?"

"Yeah." The fabric floats with a spin given once, flashing the knickers sitting under.

Louis hums, taking in the sight another time before smiling. "It's so pretty on you, Hazza."

Harry gives a hum back with a smile. The compliment pleases him of course, and the delicate curl of the word 'pretty' specifically makes him happy. He rests against the bathroom door as he fidgets coyly with the lace hem of the slip. It's the most delicate thing he's had on him all night, softening his demeanor until he's a smaller man in subconscious ways. Flirty, mostly. It's lingerie, after all. Sometimes he can't help himself. "It's perfect."

"It better be for what it costs," he jokes in a serious tone, not telling Harry it barely made a scratch on his bank account.

"Oh I hate it when you can tell something is overpriced for the hell of it," Harry mumbles in a moment spent to ponder; casual conversation as his posture sinks and he clasps his hands behind his back. "Like, you can tell it's cheap."

"Snob."

"How am I a snob?!" It's a joking sort of dismay, of course. "If I were a snob I wouldn't care about spending a lot of money on rubbish. You know what I mean? I mean it's quality." His expression relaxes, his eyebrows giving a hop as he tells Louis, "You wanna pay for something that's... obviously worth the price. Isn't that right?" Defending himself quite seriously, now.

But Louis teases him again. "You like your luxuries, princess. Don't lie, now. You're drawn to anything expensive— especially if it's weird. And shiny." 

Harry's relaxed expression awkwardly freezes, as if he's desperately trying to keep it from sinking. "Is this weird?" he asks as he straightens his back.

Louis doesn't seem to hold an opinion. He pauses for a moment, thinking, before finally shrugging with a chuckle. "It's very you." That could mean anything. Louis assumes Harry will catch onto the threads of endearment stitched through the layers.

Harry shrugs a bit embarrassed, looking elsewhere into their bedroom. "I'd like to think it isn't that extreme."

"I can assure you it is. You're a quite insatiable. It's a pain in my ass."

"Well don't make me feel bad now." Harry's laugh is quiet.

"I'm joking, love. Come on."

By now Harry would be slipping back into the bathroom to disrobe and cloak himself in another outfit to show off to Louis. Winter apparel, mostly. He's celebrated every outfit thus far. But enjoying, most of all, being praised for looking so handsome, lovely, pretty, posh, and all the rest of the compliments Louis sprinkles him with.

But no— Harry lingers instead as a standing presence in their bedroom. It doesn't sound like the most unusual thing. But Harry is terrible at masking anything short of sincerity— there, back pressed against the door, quiet and swaying a bit as he alternates his gaze between Louis and any other part of the room. He's being quite suspicious. But his expression is clear despite some blue-hued fog. He seems bothered, but not in a way that suggests something is _wrong_. Louis is receptive. He wastes no time in teasing Harry a bit with the cock of his brow, motioning for him to get on with it. 

"What?" Harry can only be half truthful as he plays dumb, laughing at himself for failing to be convincing.

"You can't fool me, Harold.” Louis speaks so charming as always. He remains firm in his own belief that this is all trivial and loose at the seams, easy to penetrate through. Nothing particularly serious going on here. Nothing he can imagine. _Can't be what I said to him_ , he tells himself. _I tease him all the time._ “Go on, love, what is it?" Does he not like the design? Would he rather Louis buy him different clothes? More clothes? Different kind of lingerie? No lingerie at all? Harry licks his lips before biting down on the bottom one, a hum of concentration coming by. Conflicted about whether or not he should say what he wants to. And what does he have to say, Louis wonders, that has him hesitant to be straightforward? 

"It's just weird having it with short hair," he confesses. "The clothes."

It hardly sounds worthy of worried hesitation.

It's obvious enough to Louis, yet again, that he frankly means something else.

He can't help but scoff and give a laugh as kind as can be, if only to prove something to himself. "You've had short hair for nearly a year, Harold. This isn't the first little... outfit you've clad yourself in. Why feel weird now?" Poking fun at his plothole.

As if he doesn't know what Harry's intentions are hinting at from behind clear glass.

He'd like to be wrong. He wants to. Ignorance rarely comes as a natural occurrence— it must be forced and squeezed by as a trespass, plastered over the truth with an artificial form of bonding. Louis wants to believe in what he can capture with one eye closed.

But to do that, he shouldn't have encouraged Harry into the path of honesty.

"No, yeah. Yeah." Harry nods a bit abashed, admitting to Louis's logic. "But um... it's not new, you know." He runs his hand back through his chestnut brown curls, either nervously or to remind himself again of the subject. "I guess I haven't stopped feeling weird in it."

But Harry hasn't voiced concern in months. It's been nearly a year since his hair was clipped away for charity, then buzzed down to the skull for his war boy debut in Dunkirk. Hair has always been his pride and joy— with it gone, his insecurity towered, engulfing him inside that shadow cast and dimming his spark. It was funny to Louis, most days. Harry can work those things out on his own. Once filming was over, growing back out the mane that was lost became his most severe priority. He refuses a trim or a proper style beyond straightening it and keeping it pinned out of his eyes with glasses. The more it grows, the more difficult it is to manage. Lately Harry's guarded abstinence from all the straightening and styling; some weeks now. Today his hair sits as a tightly coiled garland against his head. Today he's cherub soft, soft to the touch— and Louis does love to touch Harry's hair. The curls are what he loved the most about him all those years ago when he was just a baby auditioning for the world. 

"You look lovely," Louis tells him. Any occasion would find that input appropriate. If Harry really wants the conflict spared he'll take it and make it fit as a remedy, while Louis stays sitting on the edge of the bed without the twitch of a muscle just to prove he can keep composed. "You're always lovely," he says again. It's no lie at all.

"Thanks."

Topic dismissed— back to the fashion show. But if only. It bothers Louis— deeply, truly. He hasn't come to realize he's bent over with his elbows placed over his knees. Telling Harry to come sit on his lap should suffice as a band-aid; holding each other silently until they breathe their troubles away.

But Louis ruins it. "Something on your mind, love?" Why has he opened that door?

Harry makes an effort to be honest this time. All that does is delay him. The faint frown on his face marks the solemn honesty he's let take a seat. Louis fears, briefly, if he said something to upset him. But Harry offers a different thought.

"I suppose I'm a crossdresser," he tells him in a murmur that comes with a pout. The thought is tossed lightly, giving a small tap onto the floor of the ambiance; triviality. "Like, a proper one." Harry tries to sound as if it's only just occurred to him. But Louis can tell it's been sitting at the foot of his mind for a much longer, harsher length of time.

Was that a question? This is far from the grim topic Louis was anticipating. Rushing with a medical kit; he shrugs and tells Harry kindly, "Girls wear trousers and ties all the time. No one tries to put a name on it." He watches Harry walk away from the bathroom door and fondly expects him to walk over. "If it's the label that bothers you." But instead he makes his way to the full body mirror propped across the room.

"No, it doesn't bother me."

Louis sighs through his nose. "What's the problem, then?"

"No, no problem."

Liar.

"I've just been thinking. You know, since we have so much time off."

But this is true. Their break from the group has made Harry increasingly introspective. And faithful to the same incline, his melancholy has been drifting around as a more familiar face to his thinking. Although, Harry doesn't venture far with where he goes, for someone constantly thinking on hypothetics and possibilities. But by nature he's just always thinking— so that never amounts to anything in the real world. No tangible trouble. And Louis never likes digging into Harry's grievances, only reaching his hand out to what's been offered to him. Theorizing and what-if-ing through the timeline of their relationship—Louis tells him there's no use in that, and that he should live riding atop the warm breeze of the moment the way he does. 

As if he actually did, himself. But what would be the point in letting Harry know?

"Think about something else, yeah?" Louis has to suggest and he does so without passion, turning to look past his shoulder at where Harry stands before the mirror. "Come on, try on the rest of your clothes." Regretting his enabling of the conversation.

Harry eyes himself in the mirror as he holds his words behind his bitten lip. He could see his full image in the bathroom mirror when he stepped back far enough, but he still looks at himself now as if it were the first time. He studies his reflection in the full body mirror as a distraction from speaking so soon. His green eyes vivid and focused while his sculpted features stay limp across his face. He doesn't pose any differently than he would in any other outfit; usual or unusual, appropriate or inappropriate. The loose slip is sensitive to his body's movement, swimming across his skin with every slight stretch of his limbs, the exhale of his chest, the straightening of his back just to see what silhouette he would sport had genetics been more considerate with the shape of his spine. His fingers trace over the gorgeous, pricey fabric as he holds it flat against himself, passing his palm over his body. It's a pale rose shade that beautifully compliments his skin tone, as most pinks do— his favorite color. Cocking his head, turning himself. Harry sees his reflection, distracting himself yet painfully aware of his actions, squeezing his pec with his right hand to see if it could somehow fill the vacant space of the tulle bralette.

And he snorts, dropping his hands to turn around and ask Louis,

"It wasn't always like this, right?"

Still on the topic of crossdressing, Louis presumes. "Everything starts somewhere."

"How did it start, anyway?"

"I don't know. Your cheerleading costume?"

Harry laughs with relieving honesty. So adorable, no doubt visiting back his memories.

"I feel like you've always liked it, haven't you?" Louis offers the suggestion, seeing if it'll satisfy Harry's concern— or thought, or curiosity, or whatever this is. _You know what it is._ "Girly shit and all that." Was that the best wording? Was that alright? In a very shallow part of his mind, Louis finds the need for close analyzing of Harry's preferences about as reasonable as studying why he's always preferred nachos at the cinema instead of popcorn. Preferences matter so little. "We've always had a bit of fun with it." But within a deeper, more emotionally sensitive level of reasoning, Louis understands exactly what it is Harry is too passive to point to boldly.

_'How did we get from there... to here? From dressing up for a kinky fuck to like, a proper ritual every single week? Like it's therapy. Isn't it  just a bit weird? Or unsettling?'_

_'Does it fucking matter, Harry?'_

"It is a bit much, isn't it?"

Louis turns his head to look back again and frowns, voice a bit dry. "What, you don't like the clothes?"

"No no, I love it." Harry turns around to look at Louis, though he isn't looking back. He stresses his insistence with such urgency. "I love it, Louis. Really. I love everything you buy me," he tells him with a dimpled smile. And he turns back around to face the mirror, picking at his slip under some critical gaze. "I mean, that's the thing, I guess..." And he doesn't elaborate. He never does when it comes to his feelings. Harry feeds Louis the truth bit by bit, unknowingly gearing him up for one remedy before revealing he'll have to switch his technique. He does it again, and again; mistaking his efforts— he only means to soften situations, cushioning the fall of his statements so they don’t leave a bruise on the mood. Louis understands his intentions—it just doesn’t work. Things should be easier, quicker.

"What the fuck are you on about?" Louis scratches his forehead from under his fringe, eyes to the ground with a sigh as he keeps his elbows on his knees. "Actually?"

"I was just thinking."

"Then stop thinking, for fuck's sake. Just forget it, if you're not gonna go anywhere with it.” Lifting his head, Louis can see from the gap in the door where all the shopping bags sit in a crowd, right by the sink. _We need to get back to that_ , he thinks, scraping at the walls of an abrasive panic already. Every second strayed from what they were doing frustrates him. _What is he trying to get at?_ It's the veil that's bothering him, most of all. _Get to the point or just drop it._

"I'm just trying to talk about something, Louis..."

Louis turns his head to the side, his gaze too piercing for him to lay over anything but the blank wall. "Well would you get to the point, Harry?" They've gathered too much experience stacked on the backs of years to let a clash like this go on without being snipped at the strings. "The clothes, your hair— I don't get it. You're mumbling all the way over in the back of the room and it's pissing me off. I don't know what the fuck you're trying to say. You won’t even look at me." It's always Harry who's more receptive to it— when the road turns unstable and the horizon starts to blur, and a talk turns into a disagreement that sinks them to their throats. They stop and move on. They kick off their shoes and push their way through a triumph. _Why are you **ruining** this? I spent all day doing this shit for you._ But he would never be so cruel as to say. "What is it?" he demands again. "Do you even know?"

Harry doesn't answer. 

"Oi.”

And in the distance, far back in the room where Harry stands in front of the mirror, Louis hears him in a childish, tiny whisper,

"I used to be able to talk to you about things..."

And his expression falls ever so sharply.

_He's never said that before._

Louis wasn't supposed to hear him. It triggers an immediate, cold deflation of his disposition. He takes a deep breath, and a crawling anxiety settles under his skin as he drafts responses and discards them all. He interlocks his fingers, staring blindly as his thoughts flash by in sparks he could never catch. _Why would he say that?_ Asking questions he knows the answer to. _Don’t say anything. Don’t fucking say anything._

"Sorry."

No one is supposed to hold the manual for tackling emergencies but him.

Louis wants to know where the fountainhead of every demise is at a glance. With skill and smug  precision— the way he always, always does. Everything should mend at his will with a snap of his fingers, a joking dismissal. But this— this conflict— it scrapes too close to the sky for his vision to go the distance. It's never ventured so far from his reach before. Every cure was once curated perfectly, assembled in perfect harmony. Why did it change? When? Why did the ground cave from under him?  Everything can stay the same. He promised.

Harry's right.

Louis used to be better at this.

And what shame it reaps. Shame is as a snake is— a lone, cold muscle with a venomous bite and a godless expertise in asphyxia. Louis's technique for tackling conflict once had the eloquence of emotion woven into a single solution, hopping across a whole bed of adversity as if it were nothing. That was then, in a five year old one-upon-a-time. _"I used to be able to talk to you about things..."_ Well, that's true. They'd talk for hours; Louis's Yorkshire timbre and Harry's rural drawl woven together to make for long, meaningful journey. For better or for worse— they'd learned they were all worth the lessons taken to heart. But things wear down with time. With frequency Louis stopped caring to file at the edges, sacrificing lengthy sensitivity for the quickest move-on so they could get back to...

...work. That was what they had to adapt to. In dressing rooms and group rehearsals, pressing loose gauze over conflicts bleeding over like burst arteries— just so they could just get through public appearances without the expression of animosity to send their fans into a panic. _"It’ll work out,"_ he assured. _"Let me handle it,"_ he insisted. _"I’ll fix it,"_ he promised. _"I'll take care of you."_ It's the habit of his spirit and it's been the prelude of his world since he welcomed the birth of his first baby sister. The fast-paced variant he curated for Harry worked— _then_. It was magic— _then_. Rushing and hushing by bad times and whatever boxed lessons they had to offer just so they could have a happy fuck and a drunk midnight tangled in each other's arms— _back then_. All by the grace of Louis's guide, his command, his leadership; the light in the lighthouse, the savior behind the sails. A life-saver, it was— he was.

Was; past tense. He doesn't do things the right way anymore. Things grow twisted when there's no room to breathe.

"I just wish you'd be more frank." Louis's faint rasp breaks the silence. His voice is kind and humbled. "That's it, darling."

"That I be frank?"

"Yeah."

"Fine, I'll be frank."

_God, no._

When did Louis stop being the best at the only job he cares about?

"Do you ever feel like I'm stupid?"

It's the question Harry found it so hard to push past a brittle ego and into a real, clear manifestation. And even so, it's dainty and rounded at every single corner. Harry's momentum stutters and he swallows, scrabbling for the right words he realizes are far beyond his reach.

"Stupid—?"

"You know, like..." he swallows again, his gaze piercing into his own eyes through the reflection. "Like, 'Oh, crossdresser. That's fucking weird, whatever. Guess I gotta deal with him and like, keep dealing with all his... shit.'" His words cascade into the most meager, pathetic murmur he never intended. And yet, it says so much. The scarcity speaks on its own. How the deep enthusiasm of his voice has hushed into a withdrawal on terms only Harry knows.

Terms that break Louis's heart. _You can tell me. You can tell me anything. Why don't you tell me everything?_ Nearly mouthing it. Saying it— almost. Never.

"And it's just... there. And you don't wanna say anything."

"Why would you think that?" Louis's voice is cast distant and thin like the millimeter of a needle tip. A stark irony to the banging of his heart panicking under the weight of guilt. It's difficult to breathe and nearly impossible to slow down. What did he say that would make Harry doubt his intentions? What did he do? It's suddenly proving to be so difficult to find the proper file in his history. Does he make Harry insecure? _Oh God, why? What did I do?_ "Don't think that..." he says with eyes cast to the ground.

"No, I don't, Louis. That's not what I think. I-I'm asking." Harry rambles, desperately liable to a panicked shut-down. Louis can hear how awful Harry feels. The embarrassment and the worry, the fear that he's ruined something good. "I just get things in my head sometimes, because we don't really talk about things like that, you know?"

The manic dashing of Louis's thoughts exhausts him to his most brittle substructures. _You're fine, you're fine. It's fine. You can do this. He can talk to you._

"I guess I just wanted to make sure of where it comes from. Why that, and... why this."

Louis opens his eyes at the sound of Harry's voice travelling what he knows are just mere inches from where he sits. When he lifts his head, he's met with outline of his butterfly tattoo clouded behind pink georgette. Very close; standing in front of him now. This, he realizes, is a statement. Louis animates immediately and smothers his despair until his eyes are bright and clear. "Why you're my baby?" That's not the word. But Harry will have to take it in that shade.

"I can't just assume all the time," Harry mumbles as he looks down at Louis a bit apologetically. His cheeks have gone red with regret, his green eyes deeply focused. "And pretend I’m not different."

_Different?_

"Because then I just keep thinking. And I don't know. I don't like..." he sighs, "coming to my own conclusions. They're never good ones. Not that I have— about you. I haven't. It's just..." Harry shrugs in a tired surrender. Standing before Louis as he sits at the edge of their bed makes it difficult for him to have a priority that goes beyond the yearning of physical contact. He knows he's said enough for Louis to work with, despite his worry badgering his peace of mind with the opposite suggestion. He breathes out again, and places his hands on Louis's shoulders, tracing his fingertips up his black shirt until he reaches the collar, old and faded from too many washes with cheap detergent on tour. "I don't know." The period dot to his dismay. He doesn't know— that's all.

Louis answers back with such tired enthusiasm. It tells Harry he's relaxed and secure in his demeanor. Gently pressing his face into Harry's stomach, nuzzling into the georgette of his slip. His hands move to his waist to place his palms into his skin and rub him so gently. The rustle of fabric makes a point, somehow. As does the kiss he pecks onto Harry's hard belly. The most sacred talent Louis possesses is the ability to cement his amiability so it holds steady and stays strong. _This isn't about you_ , he reminds himself like a mantra, directing his healing to its rightful direction.

To a lie, that is. "I just like buying you things, sweetheart. That's all." 

“Yeah?”

“It’s fun.” He has to chuckle. The taste of irony is sweet— how he can enjoy something that comes with an electrical surge at every touch.

Harry nods, his green eyes scurrying blindly into the space before him as he collects his thoughts— or cleans them away, really. In the maintenance run he throws out his other concerns for Louis to burn away into ash. "I'd just hate for it to be about anything else."

 _Hate?_ Louis must lie again. "It's not." 

"You sure?"

 _Yes._ "You know me. Come on, love." He smiles into his belly. "Modesty's not my style."

"Or subtleness," he notes fondly.

 _No_. "Especially not subtleness."

"I don't make you feel sorry?"

 _Oh_ , he thinks.

A horrible feeling crashes across the floor of his stomach and threatens him with a frenzy.

"Sorry?"

But Louis is a beacon of strength. And the scent of Harry's skin is divine. Oatmeal and french vanilla with the dim linger of Tom Ford cologne. They're words of their own grammar, and Louis could preach every syllable blind. It's the only thing that can soothe him maybe ever.

He didn't expect to taste a lie on his tongue when he said, "No." His hands now on the back of Harry's thighs, running up and down slow. Eyes closed, his forehead pressed to his stomach. "I don't feel guilty about anything," he lies again.Guilt drives everything. Guilt is the only thing that drives anything these days. 

_I'm sorry about the mess we're still in._

"I'm obsessed with you, if you must know, Harold."

_I hope all these gifts make up for anything you might resent me for._

"I couldn't object to anything about you if I tried."

_I'm sorry things haven't turned out the way we wanted. The way I promised. I said I'd handle it, but I don't know if it's enough._

"I love you."

_Please don't leave me._

"That's what it means."

What a horrible truth. Harry would be mortified if he ever knew. Just because he opens the door to conversation the way it used to be doesn't mean he can handle it anymore. Harry can't handle much anymore. He is different— really, he is. Louis more or less anticipated it would come to bother him sooner than later. But he assumed, in poor judgement, he would keep the grief to himself as usual. And never did he ever believe his own honesty would be called into question. And more ironically, and most definitely most painful of all, Louis didn't believe he would find himself defending his own honesty with a lie.

Things have come to that.

Things of princesses. "It means you're my princess." And noble oaths to servitude. "I just wanna make you happy." 

Trapped in a tower, though she is so happy. "I am happy, Louis," So very happy, she can assure you.

Louis's just taken to beating hard on his character lately. So sorry; compensating for everything as if he should. He sees a mistake to be mended where there is no mistake. A fault to take blame for when there's been no damage done. Lying, burning, and risking it all just to prove some imaginary cause if only just in case. He's going mad, really. Sometimes he imagines himself as cracked stained glass that shatters when the choir sings the gospel of God with too much certainty. He's treading at the border of a breakdown and he's exhausted with warning signs he clutters in a trash heap he'll burn by bedtime. Big spoon, always. He can't remember the last time he slept for more than three hours. Time is just never on his side.

"I know you think about things all the time but..." Louis shrugs, sitting back so he can look Harry in the eyes, "I really don't, sweetheart. You have to trust me. And believe me when I tell you things." And setting down those words alone quiets such an unease in Harry— maybe the final one. Drawing it out of him with every caress down his arms, every word he narrows into a loving murmur. "You don't have to worry about me, alright?"

What an overwhelmingly loving thing to say to him. Who else could ever treat him this way? Harry nearly tips over in trembling retirement, wordless desperation in his eyes.

"Do you feel silly for worrying yet?"

Harry chuckles, playing with the fine hairs on the back of Louis's neck. There across his lovely face is the smile of warm relief. Dimples in his chubby cheeks, his eyes crinkling as he looks down at Louis. "Yes," he whispers, crinkling his nose. "Yes, I feel silly."

 _Good. Thank God._ Louis is so relieved. _Oh God, thank you._ He goes on and on. "We're the same."

Caged birds

"I'm the same, you're the same— nothing's changed between you and me."

learning the wrong ways of flying.

"The way I act, it's because... you know, that's the way it is. I don't lie." And he has to chuckle, maybe at himself for lying so boldly. "Not to you, anyway."

But this could never make him a dishonest man. He lies in the name of his most honest, true intentions.

_I love you. Let me do everything to make you happy._

As certain as dawn's rise and dusk's fall, there will always come a fracture in the ligament of time that calls for eyes on what Louis knows to be a side effect. Had the rain come down in timely consideration, had the soil been more kind, maybe their tree would have grown to be a lovely one. Circumstances. These moments mark the downward inception of a shift in Louis's atmosphere, triggering a gun glock that only ever shoots the bullets inside him and leaves the shells in the tissue to rot, too. Because then there is no mess. Smother suffering and the air sits without disruption. So talented Louis is, above all other gifts bestowed, for never letting dismay scratch a blemish on his face. Handsomely chiseled with icy eyes and a copper stubble; as amused and content with the world as the legend's always claimed. Of appearances; seeming like the bond that holds everything together out of the two of them, and inspiring a sense of helplessness in Harry that draws him right into his arms with just the murmur of four words.

"Come to me, darling," he says. A little emphasis on 'me', trying to speak as intimately as he can. "Come here..."

 

XXIV.

 

Sometimes they really can feel as if their bodies were carved in a single shape. Split apart to prove a point that highlights an irony of mankind, if it wasn't just God satisfying his own curiosity at the idea of an alternative way to make a human soul. Complete, but only together in each others' arms. Harry was the one to suggest such an concept. So poetic and keen on playing games with vocabulary. But mostly because Harry is the one who can't live as a functional human being without excessive physical intimacy. Nothing makes his soul more sound than being held and being held tight. Breathless and aching. His mother— she used to be the only. Until he found his missing half. He'll seem amusingly needy, but Harry goes mad without being held. He isn't right without it. He isn't right without Louis.

And of course he didn't always function that way. Surely he knows this, or is coming close to realizing. He grows and he grows taller, he grows fatter, he grows needier, hairier, older— what Harry fears, dreadfully and every day, is that one day they'll cease to fit. Louis wants nothing more than to rip that fear away and tend to the wound. To leave Harry fulfilled no matter the leaking rips in the reservoir that make his efforts futile, ultimately. No matter at all. 

On his side, held tightly in Louis's arms as he buries his face in his chest, his legs curled up on the bed. Cradled, of course. This is home. Louis holds him like a real baby. Harry found his way into the only position where he can feel right again. Their first intimacy after a dozen days apart. But Louis lulls him deeper into a state of ease. Running his fingers through Harry's hair from the fine baby hairs at his forehead to the ones down the nape of his neck. Breathing thoughtlessly as he drowns all of Harry's senses with a love beyond what he knows to be his own strength. Lips to his temple as Louis stares vacantly into nothing. 

"You're my baby. Aren't you, Hazza?" he murmurs their secrets into his skin, holding him tightly against him as he lies over his lap.

Harry hums into Louis's shirt.

"I'm here, love. Hm?" He nuzzles against Harry's face, pressed onto his chest. One arm cradling his body while the other pets his hair, adoring the weight and the warmth of him in his arms. "I've got you," he whispers. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. Understand?" Louis doesn't know why he makes it sound like tragedy is looming outside the door in wait; a fatal consequence ticking down without a timeline. It can seem that way, sometimes. Louis wouldn't mean to make the insinuation, if he were really thinking about anything. If he wanted to— if he could. "I love you."

Harry surprises him when he turns his head to plant a soft peck on his lips. Louis cups Harry's cheek, moving his own lips against his to deepen their kiss. He can't remember if this is their first kiss since they reunited. That must be his own desperate insatiability; his inability to keep track of gain. Always hungry, always wanting. He squeezes Harry's body tightly against him, always stronger than he seems to be, as he kisses him with passion. 

His hand runs down the side of Harry's body through his silk slip. Lazily palming over what flashes of his knickers peak from under the dress, feeling the soft curves and the firmness through the lace. Celebrating it, letting Harry feel how proudly he adores him. And the gesture ignites Harry like a fire in the darkest of nights. He mewls and seeks out Louis's kiss until he's lifting himself off Louis's lap with his palms pressed to the bed. He comes closer, pushing too hard on purpose just to be playful. To giggle into Louis's mouth as he falls back onto the mattress. Quite strong, Harry is.

"What are you up to?" Louis teases with a grin.  He struggles to hold himself upright as he plants his hands on the mattress. "Cheeky little thing." Harry kisses him harder and tries to climb on top of him, relishing in his own mischief. The moment flutters by like petals dancing in a gust of wind. So wonderful; their excitement growing as they giggle into the savoring each other's mouths. Harry pushes forward with such enthusiasm he has Louis moving backwards on their bed. It's the pillows Louis means to get to. 

Once his head meets with them as he lies down, they reach a surrender—  that would be Harry's; straddling Louis's tightly tailored waist and sighing as he lies on top of him. Kissing on, writhing slowly against his frame. He's heavy and mostly by comparison. Louis adores it so, and more than anyone can fathom. By law of nature, only the most beautiful things bloom the biggest and the brightest; of flower petals and stars in a dark sky. Through their kiss Harry rolls hips so they can hush him into a loving dizzy. He mewls quietly, just a bit. Enough to make a point of size—  of lessening, of softening, of melting on top of Louis as he loses himself.

Louis moves his hands to Harry's waist, mapping his silhouette underneath the stretch silk georgette. The fabric feels beautiful just by touch alone; fragile and delicate under his fingertips. _It's only fitting_ , he thinks. _It's perfect_. So proud that his choice was so wise. "Let me have a look at you, sweetheart," he whispers, placing his hand on Harry's chest to ease him back a bit.

And Harry is eager to comply. He adjusts his thighs on either side of Louis's waist and straightens his posture back. The slip smooths down his body before pooling atop his spread thighs where his knickers peak between. So tall, lithe and lovely. Harry keeps his movement slow as he presents his every self. Looking down, hands on Louis's chest. _'This is it, this is me, this is yours.'_  

"Look how pretty you are." Louis just worships him.

Harry smiles wide, blushing when he feels Louis's hands on his waist.

The slip really was made for him. Transparent loose leavers lace at the breasts where his dark nipples show right through, a hemming of deep pink embroideries lining the bottom that divides the bralette from the flowing fabric of the dress. A simple, single pattern of that rose georgette that gracefully hangs off him. And a final stitching of embroideries, dividing the stretch silk from four inches of leavers lace that border the very bottom of the slip. So simple it sits beside its price as an irony. Louis likes that allegory. It suits Harry so naturally.

"All dolled up, aren't you? Is this what you like, love?" He wants to hear it from him, making sure. 

Harry nods, coyly dragging his index fingers down under the straps of his slip. "Do I look like a princess?"

"You always do. You're always a princess."

Wide-spaced emerald eyes under straight brown eyebrows. A pointed nose, bright pink lips curved into a smile. His wide shoulders and broadly defined arms, rounded over softly by their vacation. Gorgeously athletic and soft as cream. Harry's slip rests over the curve of his belly, stretching and loosening as he rocks his hips. Nearly every bit of his skin is stamped with butterflies and mermaids and laurels and roses in thick black ink. Everything about him arranged as a perfect contrast to trademark how special he is— at least, as Louis sees it. 

"The loveliest princess..." He promises. Who else will? "You're so beautiful." 

And how blessed Louis truly is to have such a beautiful princess under his care. Should this frame in time ever slip beyond these walls, everything they've ever broken their backs to keep alive will die in just seconds. It never ceases to mortify him—  the knowledge of how the sweetest of his things have been laced with poison. As if it were a weapon he carried, a doomsday device designed to devastate the world. Is that where Harry's insecurity comes from? he wonders. If his baby carries his own guilt. Louis can't think of something like that—  not in this moment. In this moment he wants to bow before Harry as he would a precious shrine. Worship him with all his desires, all his wishes made true.

"Do you know what I'd do for you, sweetheart?" he asks, gazing up into Harry's eyes. This all means so much. Louis goes mad thinking about it in his head, just how crooked their world has been bent. 

Harry's entranced by the suggestion, by the thought of what he might say. Every word melting him from the inside. "Anything?" he whispers nervously with a chuckle, not knowing if he said the right thing. 

Louis's cheeks are turning red and he has to smile. "Everything." Harry mewls and swoops down for a kiss, so happy with what they can make of their world. They hold each other in tightly bent arms, Louis kissing the crook of Harry's neck. "You're everything to me..." The sound of breathing is growing heavier at a gentle incline. Louis doesn't know how much of his racing heart is arousal or just a malfunctioning panic attack, kissing Harry so tenderly, taking deeper breaths so he remembers he still has a body to keep functioning. Pulling at the fabric of Harry's pink lingerie, the knickers. "Who's my big boy?" 

"I am," he breathes. Rocking himself up and down slow on Louis's body.

"That's right..."

Harry begins whimpering with such zeal, kissing up Louis's throat until their lips meet again. Louis realizes Harry's placed his hands over his own nipples, where he pinches them through the rough lace bralette. His dark brown brows tightened together in willful agony as they kiss. Every pull at the sensitive nubs only worsens the problem— of course, the desired effect. Louis moves his face back from Harry's so he can look down at his chest. "Let daddy see..." he tells him. And Harry climbs over him until his chest is over his face. He pulls down the lace, and lets Louis marvel at the sight of his desperation as he props himself on his elbows.

His puffy nipples are hard and throbbing from the unforgiving treatment Harry gave them himself. A rosy brown color with tender, creamy skin all around. Louis encircles the left one with his thumb, flicking it up and down. Just the single touch wraps the skin around both in goosebumps. They're so delightfully sensitive, constantly starved for attention.

"They hurt, now, don't they?" And he lets his head come back to the pillow, pulling away his attention from Harry. Only so it can draw him closer. A succession as sure as a one-two.

Harry lets his weight come forward slowly, carefully; adjusting his chest to be at face-level with Louis again. Rolling his hips, mewling below his breathing. "Yeah..." He he lowers the strap of his silk slip, the bralette collapsing until his pec is free. Louis takes it in his hand, squeezing it with unforgiving strength. The arch of Harry's back comes with a whimper, letting Louis hold control of his senses. Louis pinches Harry's nipple and pulls down hard while he rubs the lace cup into the other nipple. He lets his thumb and forefinger let go before claiming another downward tug; again and again. Harry pants, dropping more of his weight onto Louis as he helplessly seeks out sensation, bringing his chest close to his mouth.

"You want daddy to kiss them?" Louis hums, ghosting his lips over his swollen nipple. His breath serving as a reminder, as temptation.

"Mhmm..."

"Say 'yes, daddy.'"

"Yes, daddy..." Harry lowers the other strap on the silk slip, blushing as he uncloaks his chest bare and waits for Louis to give him what he needs. "Please..."

And Louis does it so well. He moves his face forward and quickly latches onto Harry's fat nipple. Suckling hard and drawn backwards into desire with a deep groan in his throat. The nipple throbs as he flicks it with his tongue, leaving them wet when he moves his head away so the cold air can cast a shiver over Harry's body. Louis takes his other nipple in his mouth, kissing it open-mouthed as he moans, holding onto Harry's waist as his weight lies on top of him. 

The sound of their breathing quickly fills whatever void misery had drifted through their bedroom. Conflict now turned to intimacy. Weary eyes molded in the shape of hearts instead.

Harry's running his fingers through Louis's brown hair for the sake of fidgeting. The pain makes his cock grow, the moment rushing past him as he hangs his head to watch. Green eyes turning glassy, half-lidded. That warm mouth latched to his chest, the furrow between Louis's brow as he groans. Harry squeezes his arm into his body so his pecs will push out more, so Louis can press his face into them as he suckles in a tight and unforgiving latch.

Louis lets his hands come up Harry's thighs until they slip back to feel his ass. He lifts the slip and traces his fingers across Harry's skin until he can feel the lace of the lace knickers. He hasn't given these enough attention. "What's under here, hm?" Louis murmurs, his lips dragging across Harry's swollen, wet nipples. He kisses them each, groaning as he leans back and eyes his work keenly. Wet and swollen with flushed skin. Louis pinches just the very tips of the nubs, and Harry whimpers as he tries to keep quiet like a good boy. "You gonna show me?" He lets his head come back to look Harry in the eyes, suggesting a second time. "Hm?"

Harry leans back and eagerly lifts the bottom of his dress up to his belly. Louis sits up to his elbows and looks up with a loving smile, crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

The knickers are completely see-through. A single cut of transparent pink lace wraps around Harry's pelvis completely across with only a strip of cotton at the bottom of the crotch. Harry's fat cock is stuffed behind the see-through cloth obscenely. Hardening, leaking already; his balls spilling at the sides. Harry smiles without shame to make him care. It's absolute joy; so excitedly showing off. Nothing could ever make him feel like this; like he's buried in light, like he's feverish in the core of his chest.

Louis teases him, his expression distancing into a smirk as he drops back, hands to Harry's waist. "What are you thinking about?" Furrowing his brow to look so boyish and keen on mischief, gazing up at Harry through his lashes.

With no hesitation at all Harry murmurs coyly, "Your cock."

Louis feels a shiver come down his spine, a pulse of arousal shooting between his legs. "Yeah?"

Harry nods, breathing hard, back straight as he looks down into Louis's hooded eyes. The thin straps of his slip are still halfway down his arm, either covering or exposing his nipples depending on how he moves. One hand holds his slip bunched and wrinkled at his chest, while the other reaches down and teases around his pelvis, not once touching his shaft. "How big it is," he breathes. "How good it tastes when it's in my mouth."

"You love sucking cock?"

"Only yours, daddy," he smiles, proud to proclaim. Louis sinks his grip down to Harry's hips and pulls his weight down harder onto his body, over the bulge at his crotch. A message sent, pushing his hips upwards where their intimacy meets. Harry goes on to speak in sheer, flowing words. "How my jaw gets sore, when I'm sucking it down to the bottom." Feeling Louis's growing erection between his legs already. And he parts his lips, flushed and damp, to go on innocently. "And it's too big for me."

"Touch yourself for me, sweetheart..." Louis's hand traces across Harry's cock, encouraging him to rub himself through the lace. The rough texture drags across his foreskin and over the sensitive head until Harry's leaking and falling into an unraveling. 

When he pulls back, Harry complies with Louis's orders and fondles himself. He squeezes his balls, fingers touching up his cock from outside his knickers. "I love when I'm jerking you off," he mewls. Louis's getting hard, Harry purposefully rubbing his ass back and forth along the outline of the shaft growing through his sweatpants. "And you leak all over my hand." He strokes himself a bit faster, his eyelids fluttering as they nearly fall closed. "And I can lick it, and taste how much you want me."

"And how much do you want me?" Louis asks him in a voice pulled back into a course hum in the back of his throat, letting his hand slip under the band of the knickers so he can squeeze Harry's smooth, fat ass.

"So much, Louis..." Harry whispers with crimson cheeks feigning innocence. His usually deep voice now so nimble. "I want you so much..."

"Princesses get whatever they want." And Louis moves his hand away. "Show me."

Harry wastes no time getting off his lap. He hurries to strip Louis naked from the waist below, yanking his sweatpants down before his briefs follow. He tosses both over the bed and swallows when Louis lets his legs slide open across the mattress, just enough. Louis's cock is swollen with excitement though not hard all the way. Harry lets his gaze calm him through his trembling motions. He settles between Louis's legs, belly down with his left arm hooked over Louis's thigh.

Louis sits up, propped on one hand behind him, while the other cradles the back of Harry's head close against him. Harry takes his cock in his hand and shivers, drawing comfort from the bold sight. His hands run up the shaft, fingers rubbing across the weeping head. "Go on," Louis encourages him lovingly, leaning his body forward, and taking over hold his erection as a means of tutorship. He pushes Harry's face closer with his fingers laced in his hair. And Harry finally takes his cock in his mouth. Swallowing, a relieved moan vibrating around the shaft with every slip deeper inside.  "There you go..." Louis draws in a deep breath through his teeth and lets it drift from him slow as his blue eyes drown behind a black ring of arousal.

Time drips by scarcely with every moment dragging forward. Harry gently suckles on Louis's cock as a sweethearted boy would, sliding his tongue back and forth the underside of his shaft as he breaths in whimpers. The hand running through his curls soothes him, feeling Louis's presence all around him. Louis finds himself leaned back on his hand, thrusting his hips gently into Harry's face. He can feel the narrow, wet suction around him. He stares down at Harry as his own cheeks flared. " _God_ , baby..." And he's in love, in heaven. Panting as his fingers feel through Harry's silky curls and fucks his face. No one could ever suck his cock the way Harry does. He savors every ridge, every vein, every leaking of lust as his body curls against him. Cheeks hollowed as he bobs his head back and forth. He sucks hard and slow, his brows curved upward and his eyes closed as he whimpers contently.

"Look at daddy," Louis murmurs, hand coming to cup Harry's cheek. And Harry's the very spirit of beauty, tilting his head to the side so his boyfriend can get a perfect view of of just how blown his pupils are, how the tears glimmer across his green eyes. "My beautiful boy..." His lips are wet and his face is so flushed, damp with just a bit of sweat already. Louis's hand trembles, his toes curling as his breath slips through gritted teeth. He squeezes out the precum from his cock with deep upwards strokes, right onto Harry's tongue, watching him suck it with his lips tightly wrapped around the head. "Does it taste good?"

"Mhmm..." he whimpers, his adam's apple bobbing as he drinks it down. He pushes his head down deeper to feel the throbbing of hard flesh in his mouth, how it makes his jaw ache so much so soon. He lets his lips come back up to the head and suck hard and slow just to watch  how Louis shutters, how his stomach twitches. Louis has to smile adoringly at him for always taking the time to be mischievous. And then Harry finally says it: "Can you fuck me, daddy?" Muttering on the head of Louis's cock before taking his precum with a kiss. "Please?"

Louis smiles, stroking Harry's cheek. "Of course, sweetheart..." Harry lifts himself from his lap and greets him with a gentle kiss, letting Louis taste himself on his tongue. Harry moans deep, kissing lazily as he stays adrift in his high. "Just let me get my things, okay?"

Harry pouts with a whine for the sake of being difficult. Louis laughs and ruffles his hair, and leaves him to drop onto the bed childishly while he goes into the bathroom to get the lube— thing; not things, in fact. 

Naturally, Louis pauses by the pile of shopping bags near the sink to take in the sight of glamour, riches, serviceable insecurity. He wonders when Harry will pick up where they left off. A bit unexpectedly, he strokes his cock while the sight of all those shopping bags sits at the center of his gaze. He could believe it's just to foster his arousal for when he darts back into the bedroom. But something judgemental warns him not to be so willingly obtuse. Once he finds the bottle he takes it and enters the bedroom again, his erection bobbing with every stride.

Harry sits waiting for him in the center of the bed, his eyes fixing their attention to Louis's cock right away. Louis smirks. "Look at you waiting all patient for me."

"I'm not patient." Harry lets himself fall back on the luxury sheets with a laugh, excited when Louis starts climbing on top of him. He holds himself on his hands, placed on either side of Harry's head. He keeps the bottle of lube in the left one, squeezing it tighter than he means to as his cock bobs over Harry's stomach.

"So you're a greedy boy?" The corner of Louis's mouth curve into a smile as he presses down a kiss to Harry's lips, placing the bottle of lube beside him on the bed.

Harry parts them so they can share the taste of Louis's lust. "Greedy princess." He's so hopelessly adorable, all dimples and just as giddy to be at the blooming of a night of sex as he was seven years ago under the euphoria of his first time. He spreads his legs and sighs when Louis settles his weight down between.

"A greedy princess..." he breathes down his neck and over his sweaty chest. He adjusts the fallen straps of Harry's slip and kisses over his covered nipples. His affection travels downward as he kisses and nuzzles his nose against Harry's frame, draped in baby pink georgette. Every dip and every curve is cemented as his surest memory, goosebumps splashing across his skin when he lifts Harry's slip. His fat cock peeking at the top of the pink lace knickers already, the thin strip of the crotch going down the center of his balls. Louis kisses his shaft, mouths through the lace. He lifts Harry's leg to rest over his shoulder and buries his face in the bend of his thigh, kissing and nipping at the impossibly warm skin as he fondles his cock.

Harry breathes hard, he breathes restless. He reaches down to comb through Louis's hair and grip in a damp hand. "God, eat me out..." He doesn't shape it into a question, or lengthen it to a request. He begs. "Please, daddy..." Thoughtless and sunken into a blushing fog, his green eyes glossy with tears and his chest damp with desire.

"Such a good boy," Louis smiles against his erection. "Asking nicely..." He kisses the head of his cock before hooking his fingers under the border of his lace knickers. And Harry unravels impossibly, his skin shivering at the scratching of lace on his skin as Louis pulls them off. He yearns for everything in the world at every second, like he can't tell anything apart.

Louis turns around until body is opposite to Harry's on the side of the bed; hands and knees, his upper body directly above Harry's crotch, while his lower body sits adjacent to Harry's shoulder. Looking down at his groin, Louis pulls back Harry's thighs until the back of his knees are hooked behind his slender arms and he's obscenely stretched out under him. He locks his position of power with his hands planted on the mattress, and then dips his head down to latch his mouth over Harry's hole, lapping it with his tongue. Moaning loud, hungry, his cock throbbing between his legs as he digs his face into Harry's ass. Louis's stubble chafes the smooth skin until it blushes. "You taste so sweet, baby..." He tucks his hands under Harry's lower back and pulls him up until his hips leave the mattress, giving him better access as he sinks his body down on top of him. He groans, Harry's hole twitching around his tongue.

" _Daddy..._ " Harry whines as his face flushes into a deep pink all over, all over again. His brow furrowed with eyes drawn closed. His helplessness turns breathing into an impossible labor, his cock leaking desperation in a thin stream down the shaft. He reaches down to feel the wetness, to rub it across the sensitive organ as he alternates between delicacy and harsh tugs.

Louis lets Harry's legs unhook from behind his arms as he leaves kisses over his hole, open-mouthed and wet as he travels up to Harry's balls. Dragging his tongue across the sack, sucking them in his mouth. Harry jacks himself off  and pushes his cock against his face. Louis brings his wet lips to the head of Harry's cock as he tongues the leaking tip. Watching through the corner of his dusked eyes at Harry's twitching abs, his eyes clouded over with pleasure as he helplessly bears witness.

Until Louis kisses him, swiftly grabbing the bottle of lube to squirt a dime of slick before rubbing it on his cock. He moves his hips until his body sits between his thighs. Harry tilts his head into their kiss with a sigh, relaxing into the pillow as contact finally comes to him. He pulls his slip down over his cock just to be a tease, while Louis runs his touch up and down his bare thighs. His cheeks red with passion, pulling back to swallow every sight; the sweat at the crown of Harry's forehead, the outline of his cock through the baby pink georgette. A lovedrunk angel, sweet and glossy like honey.

"Want it like this, darling?" Missionary. Often times the default when Harry's too lazy to share the likeness of a painting placed for exhibition as he sits on top of his lap, cock buried inside him, moaning as a breathing display. But today he'll have neither.

"On my side."

"Behind you?" Louis places his hands on Harry's waist, giving it a gentle press so he turns over. 

"Mhmm."

Louis assumes his place as if bound to a dutiful spell. There isn't a morsel of motive beyond wanting Harry satisfied. A single wish from his baby is enough for him to feel it driving the story of his own bones— as if it were his troubles, his desires, his suffering he needed exterminated. No surprise at all. Their shapes lock in fulfillment like puzzle pieces down to the belly of the soul. Both on their sides, the heat of their bodies meet in familiarity when Louis settles behind Harry, Harry sighing as he presses back. Louis realizes he never took off his shirt. A contrast, he imagines; pale rose georgette and faded black cotton side to side. A shiver travels up his spine at the first touch. There isn't a better feeling than this, he thinks. And he thinks so every time. If you backtraced the days you'd find it was only steps away when they were last like this. Louis kissing Harry's neck and shoulder, stumbling over the old tracks of his fear. As sure as daylight born from a horizon, Louis finds himself helpless again to the pitiful complex burrowed in his ego. Of his own restless need, his own impatience, his own insatiability.

"I love you..." Harry suddenly whimpers so gently, tucked under the air they breathe as he keeps the side of his face on the pillow.  
Louis's expression melts into a warm, soft sea. He quickly pulls back on Harry's shoulder to turn his upper body on his back Their eyes meet, and Louis pushes himself up to his elbow and presses down his lips to Harry's. "I love you too, sweetheart..." It's all he wants him to know. He would shatter the world from its core, rip his own life from his body— if it meant Harry would know endlessly, in certainty, in time without end, "I love you..." Kissing him as he reaches to intertwine their fingers, pressing their hips even closer together.

"I love you more than anything..." Harry babbles without context present to guide him, blind to reason— wherever it is.

"You know I feel the same."

Harry's gaze is bound to the sight of Louis. His piercing blue eyes rimmed dark with insomnia, his high cheekbones and sharp jaw contoured by the shadow of his stubble. His dusty brown hair already damp and sticking to his forehead, his pale skin flushed in vivid scarlet. And he's turned so thin; sharp like a dagger, weight lost like a filed down blade. Starboy; dusked as the night he's always been, glimmering as an ocean of stars suspended above Harry's eyes. Always above, always watching down below. Celestial; as unfathomably powerful as he is unfathomable on his own.

"I'll always feel the same," he whispers as he brings Harry's knuckles to his lips for a kiss.  Leaving them pressed, stroking his skin with his thumb. He kisses them again before letting go, dipping down to cup his cheek and kiss his temple. "You'll always be my baby..." Promising as he looks into his eyes, reaching down to slide his hand under the slip and feel his waist. "My everything..."

Harry looks into Louis's eyes like he's fallen under a spell, like he's marveling at the world being born again. He shifts his lower body on its side, and brings his leg up higher before reaching behind him to hold Louis's cock in his hand. Louis dips his head down for another kiss shared from a place of desperation, cupping his cheek to steady Harry's actions. Every word falls into place; perfect and unspoken. He moans into his mouth with the furrow of his brow, his body buzzing in piercing sensation when he feels Harry sinking onto his cock. "Jesus..." His voice cracks, the muscles in his thigh twitching as he struggles not to thrust, and buries his face in the crook of Harry's neck. He's so fucking _tight_. 

Harry tries to steady his breathing, turning his cheek onto the pillow, his brows curving upward together. He lets go of Louis's cock to grip the back of his thigh from behind him so he takes control. This is the spilling of impatience, desperation and a pain kink crossing over at once. But above it all, it's a giddy show of the abstinence he guarded while Louis was away. Loyalty displayed in a way that only Harry would be so audacious as to show. Barely breathing right as his back arches at the feeling of being so full. Louis moans his appreciation, falling overwhelmed as his skin dampens and his balls ache for every inch squeezing inside.

Louis settles his arm behind his neck, leaning his body over him to kiss him in appreciation. His other hand grabs Harry's ass and pulls him open so he can slide his cock inside him with more ease, angled deeper until their hips finally meet. The sparrows on Harry's chest dance with every trembling breath he takes, turning his face into Louis's collarbone. Whimpering always, his body yielding to every spark of desire burning in the pit of his groin. Stuffed and stretching with the throb of hard flesh sinking up into him. "You're so big, daddy..." Bringing his hands back to pull up the georgette fabric of his slip so he can fist his weeping cock. He can feel the ache of his waning tightness buzzing down his legs like electricity surging to his toes. And he savors every second of it as he touches himself, stroking his erection wildly. 

In a chance reflex Louis blinks his gaze up at the wall and finds his eyes meeting with his reflection in the full body mirror. The sight enthralls him, inspiring possessiveness and a rush of pride. Harry is a mess under him. So nuzzled against his body he's merely a bambino clad in silk pink docility and slick with sweat. Louis pulls Harry closer against his body as a display to his own eyes, pressing his cheek to Harry's curls while his boy kisses up neck. He can feel Harry's muscles melting against him as he submits.  

 _I can take care of him._ And why that thought would sprawl across his mind he doesn't know. _This is mine._ His brow furrowed as coarse pleasure tears through him, jaw clenched as he breathes through his nose, letting his hand slide up under Harry's knee to claim a stronger hold. Gazing into the mirror, he watches his cock slide out slow, careful. Everything executed with ease. And he pushes back in as perfectly orchestrated as he carries out every affection, and with eyes shut closed. "Tell me how that feels, sweetheart..." he breathes into Harry's neck, rolling his hips back and forth as he squeezes through the warm tightness of his hole. "Daddy making you feel good?" Always 'daddy' when they reach this point; crossing into a dream reality they can never quite interpret. His pace grows faster in a gentle, careful rythm. Taking care of him always.

"I-It feels good..." Such a beautiful voice. Louis presses his lips to Harry's neck as he watches them through the mirror. Harry struggles to keep his body still as his breathing runs carelessly in and out of his lungs, his pace jagged as he whimpers. Penetrated, grateful, deaf to a world that could exist beyond this as he strokes his cock. "It feels s-so good, daddy..."

"Yeah?" Louis leans back to look Harry in the eyes as he fucks him. He's as lovely as a rose dotted with raindrops, his curls stuck against his forehead. Louis can't help kissing him, murmuring so closely against him, "Do you want it harder?"

Harry can only nod his head, begging in a broken voice, "Yes, daddy..."  

Serving his princess; every deed making him a prouder human soul. Louis's pace tightens quickly. He moves his hand from Harry's thigh and lifts his own leg high and adjacent to Harry's, cock pushing into his hole until his balls slap on his smooth skin. "Like this?" Louis drops his head down, his cheek against Harry's. Louis's half-lidded eyes stare at the mirror as he fucks Harry with passion only he could ever give him, propelled by a desperate duty that feeds of fear and anger. Fucking him harder as it stains his thoughts blue. He's so warm and wet inside, tight around him, knowing only the curves of Louis's cock in a place where he was virginal before they met. It drives Louis's thrusts faster, the slickness of lube making it easy to jab his cock in Harry's body.

And Harry cries out soft, yearning to feel so small. "Like that, like that...!" Nuzzling his face against Louis's and biting on his lip, hushing into puppy mewls with every thrust.

Louis's head is spinning, his heart pounding up the pipe of his throat. The mirror frames their image perfectly from head to groin. And in that truth reflected, Louis can say with new certainty that Harry's the most gorgeous, ethereal princess he's ever seen. Clad in women's lingerie and flushed red, damp with sweet sweat all over his tattooed skin. Moaning as cock rams up between his spread thighs. It comes handed to Louis all the time— this feeling. For years, he's immersed in this world entirely tailored to suit two. No one could ever fuck Harry the way he does. The sound, the heat, the tightness. No one could ever bring light to his loins this way. Harry feels so small in his arms when he's really so big as his contrast. "You're just a baby..." he whimpers, face burying into Harry's throat. Overwhelmed as he feels his cock pounding into his body with wet slaps.

"Am I good, daddy?" he asks so weakly, his words slipping by.

"You're perfect, sweetheart..." Kissing him on the lips. "You feel so perfect around me..."

Harry swallows, barely able to speak as his body rocks back and forth. "M' your princess..."

"You're daddy's princess..."

His eyes teary, his pupils blown around the glassy green of his eyes. Looking at Louis as if he were the sun, moon and stars put together, overwhelmed by what it means to have him here with him. "Daddy..."

Louis kisses him again, whispering in between, "My baby boy..."

Louis'll have Harry cumming this way, the way he always does. Harry can only whimper when he takes his lips again. Boneless in his body. Louis's leg is tiring from holding itself up so high but he pushes through it without concern, hooking his arm under Harry's knee and pulling it up to his chest. Harry kisses under Louis's jaw while his hand tends to his fat cock. The head flared pink like his lips, throbbing in his palm. Feeling every inch of Louis in his hole; in and out, passing by his sweetest spot. 

"Such a sweet baby..." Louis coos, holding Harry against him with his arm across his belly, gripping his waist. He breathes through clenched teeth, pressing his lips to Harry's temple as his orgasm builds between his legs. And he looks out the corner of his eye at the mirror again. Wanting nothing but this moment in time forever. Louis fucks him faster, harder. "Cum for daddy..." Louis can hardly speak, pounding his cock up inside Harry's body and watching it all from the mirror against the wall.

How Harry's cock his bouncing, how Louis rocks his body on the mattress with every thrust of his hips. His cock looks so big going inside him, glistening wet and flushed a deep rose color. The silk slip drapes gracefully across his body for something so viciously obscene. It's a Baroque-like beauty, he thinks. The way Harry breathes, the sound of his whimpers, and that boyish baby face so flushed with forbidden bliss as he reels in his orgasm with every pump of his fat, hard cock. "I-I'm gonna..." he breathes, his voice broken in his chest.

Louis's heart beating faster as he fucks him harder, desperately pushing him over the edge, blue eyes staring with burning focus at the reflection in the mirror. "That's it..."

Harry's close; breath pausing, toes curling as his leg is held high, body pulled apart. Sweat runs down his temples, the sheets under them darkening from the dampness of their bodies. Harry writhes under Louis, under his charge and under his words. Every breath comes sharp through the pitch of his moaning. Nuzzling as close as he can to Louis's body, high on how hard he's getting fucked. Louis's strokes are long and smooth, his hips slamming into Harry's ass and knocking the breath out of him. Harry's muscles twitch and tense, fisting his weeping cock. The noises amplifying into desperate, frustrated cries of pleasure. Until it stops, his breath held in his chest as turns his head into his pillow. Louis has such a perfect view.

As he cums all over his hand, his orgasm ripping through him in shuttering silence. Cum spurts onto his skin and up to his silk slip until he breathes out a broken moan, turning his face instead into Louis's neck as his body goes on trembling for every pulse of semen spent. Louis keeps fucking him as he rubs it all into himself, feeling it sliding across his skin. Louis's face flushes red and feverish as he watches, never letting his hips stop thrusting. Harry's squeezing his cock in his hand, torturing the oversensitive flesh that throbs painfully, wonderfully. His hole spasms around Louis's dick to beg for his own release. "Please, daddy... please..." he begs breathlessly as he reaches up to kiss him.

How could he say anything more? Harry always gets what he wants. Louis's bound for the rest for the rest of his life to comply. He lets his eyes fall closed as he kisses Harry with loose lips and drags their tongues together. Moaning, fucking Harry hard as his orgasm swirls between his legs. Through clenched teeth every breath drawn in leaves him with less air, less thought. Nothing but feeling. He reaches down and grips Harry's slip tight in his hand, pulling until his knuckles turn white and he's gone silent with a breath paused in his lungs. Louis snaps his hips up, holding still. And he cries out into Harry's chest as his hips spasm upwards.

And he's cumming. His orgasm hitting him hard and crude with force. His cock pulses and twitches inside Harry as he spurts cum from the slit and fills his hole. Harry lies spent, panting as he goes dizzy at the feeling of Louis's cum spilling inside him. Louis pulls him hard against him, snapping his hips up with every pulse of cum. It leaks from around the rim, sliding down Louis's balls as he keeps thrusting. That would mean so much more if they were like everyone else— if they weren't different; the same between the legs. _Who would've thought?_ And that's all he thinks. Three words that carry implications of disappointment and hurt that need no further verbalizing. "This what you wanted, princess?" Louis breathes against his ear grabbing Harry's neck and squeezing down gently. Everything would've been easy. "Daddy's cum filling you up just like this?" Life would've been so different, in ways that shouldn't have to be different for them. 

"Yeah..." Barely a voice making a mark, letting his head fall back with his eyes closed. Harry's hole still twitches around him from his orgasm. His breathing goes on to skip and stutter with every tired inhale and exhale. His pretty pricey slip is stained with cum along with the sheets he'll have to clean later. 

Louis can feel the pattern of how every muscle comes undone against his body, unwinding from the high of his orgasm. He lets Harry's leg come down until he's finally gone soft inside him. He pulls out, rubbing the cum around the rim of Harry's stretched out hole as it all slides out of him and down the curves of his skin. Harry opens his eyes for just a moment. They're red and hazy, his pupils still dilated as he looks into Louis's eyes. Louis can only look back with the same whirlwind of sensations scrambling his mind. Harry's limbs are weak when he pulls him in for an embrace. He whimpers with the same wavering fragility he does in every sexual aftermath. Nuzzling into Louis's chest as he's kissed on his forehead, his cheek, his nose. Every second fading until only the smallest fragments stay. That's all they'll have, until they have

time

to do it again.

Sometimes Louis expects Harry to break, say something, but he never does. Harry can only ever fall forward into exhaustion until his high wears off and he's fallen asleep in Louis's arms. As he does now. Both of Louis's arms around his body as he keeps his lips against his cheek, stroking his curls as his heartbeat serves as Harry's lullaby. And he's asleep. Right there, with him, abbreviated until he's less a popstar than the world a good place. Just a boy living with as little purpose as the day he crowned.

There won't be a word in attendance when he eventually awakes. His skin will be dry and sticky, his limbs sore. Within the tiny span of minutes he'll be fixing to take a shower. Most importantly, he'll drag Louis as an essential accessory— if Louis isn't standing in wait by the door already, functioning under the weight of his own longing anxiety. Soap foaming under hot water, steam rising to the ceiling and dampening their lungs, their bodies tended to like temples in the secluded wilderness where life grows in godlessness. And no circumstances—no amount of pain spawned from the belly of secrecy—can ever change that, if only by sheer willpower alone. 

This is something that's stood the test of the most merciless time since 2010, when Harry was sixteen and Louis relished in a serving of a post-sex ego trip as he watched him sleep through the hours on a bed draped with fresh new linens. He never outgrew the habit— his soul unconsciously recoiling into Louis in the afterglow of an emotional orgasm as he sinks into a deep sleep. Love and lust at the peak of a twenty-three minute timeframe— no strenuous exercise session or nightclub carouse has ever pacified him in an aftermath quite the same. And the elevation of Louis's ego— well, that still stands. And he keeps every ounce of that sensation. Seven years later. Really. Harry's more than certainly fallen asleep in his arms, nuzzled into his chest as he does with him and him alone.

Louis doesn't know how much of their relationship has become him chasing an illusion just so they can keep from realizing they're sitting inside a burning house, suffocating in smoke. Just so those times they've unraveled never return to peel back their sanity for round five, six, seven, eight and onward into a timeless span. Living in a bed of lies means lying on something warm and easy on the bones. Louis wants them to be safe. Louis wants, above all else in the world, for Harry to be safe. Some things are best kept in the line of vision belonging to a blind eye. Some things should be so simple. Some things should be reduced, and lessened to something much easier to swallow down a dry, narrow throat. Brainless habits and reflexes releasing actions without thought.

The stereotypic behavior of a captive animal that has known, for too long, only a world in the shape of a box.

This happens in a perpetual cycle. It's a funny thing— how time flies on as infinitely encased in the gilded brass of a watch chained to a tiny pocket, as it would in the vast expanse of the universe. It's as ironic as it is a devastating analogy to mark significance on the life of any human being. Downright cruel. Nothing differentiates fog from the rays of our closest star, anymore. Louis can't see beyond selflessness, but the world sees him all the same. As if grief is adapting to the barriers propped up to keep it at bay. No matter and no mercy to stop the process of decay

Louis only ever feels like a person when he's here. If he isn't here he's alone. And there isn't a heaven worth dying for if it means he'd be there alone. Louis could make a whole new world out of all the things he's thrown away for this. His only baby. 

 

 _"The songbird that escapes_  
_from a burning house_  
_will build its nest_  
_in the shape of a cage."_  
_— Ryan Teitman_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and let me know what you think in the comments.


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